Eddard Stark, the newly appointed Warden of the North, rode wearily through the shadowed valleys toward King's Landing, his cloak heavy with the dust of the Dornish marches. At his side rode Lord Howland Reed, his closest and most steadfast friend, whose crannogman cunning had proven invaluable in the trials they had faced. Flanking them were the remnants of the Kingsguard who had survived the Tower of Joy: Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, stern and unyielding as the Hightower itself; Ser Oswell Whent, with his dark humor intact despite the scars of battle; and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, whose legendary blade Dawn now rested sheathed at his hip, a symbol of oaths unbroken.
Behind them came the loyal Northern lords who had accompanied Ned on this fateful journey: Lord Willam Dustin, grim and resolute; Martyn Cassel, ever watchful; Theo Wull, the mountain clansman with a voice like thunder; Ser Mark Ryswell, swift on horseback; and Ethan Glover, whose squire's youth belied his fierce loyalty. In Ned's arms, bundled against the chill wind, was a babe—his sister's child, the son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. The boy, with his dark hair and solemn eyes, was no bastard, but a trueborn heir. If Ned had his way, he would be proclaimed Jaehaerys III, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.
Word had reached them en route: Robert Baratheon, Ned's dearest friend and the would-be king of the rebellion, had succumbed to an infected wound sustained in the Battle of the Trident. The fever had taken him swiftly, leaving a void in the hearts of many and a precarious uncertainty over the realm. No longer was this a war of conquest; it had unraveled into a tapestry of lies and hidden truths.
As they approached the gates of King's Landing, the massive iron portcullis loomed like a judgment. Waiting there were Jon Arryn, Ned's foster father and the architect of the rebellion, flanked by the rebel lords—Hoster Tully of Riverrun, with his shrewd gaze; Tywin Lannister, ever the opportunist, his golden armor gleaming; and a host of lesser banners from the Vale, Riverlands, and Westerlands. The air was thick with tension, the scent of smoke from recent sieges still lingering.
The party came to a halt, horses snorting in the dust. Jon Arryn stepped forward, his face etched with sorrow. "My boy, I am sorry about your sister. And I'm sorry for the grim tidings I sent you while you were in the Stormlands, lifting the siege at Storm's End."
Ned dismounted carefully, cradling the babe close. "It's fine, Lord Arryn, but we are in a dire situation. The realm is without a known king. Send word—but my sister's son is trueborn. It seems this war was built on a lie. My sister said she sent letters; someone has been planning to overthrow the Targaryens for years, twisting truths into daggers."
Jon Arryn's eyes widened as he beheld the child. "Trueborn? By the old gods and the new... Rhaegar and Lyanna? Not a kidnapping, then?"
Ned nodded gravely. "She went willingly. Eloped, in secret. The babe is their son, legitimate by the rites they observed. The Kingsguard here—they guarded her, not imprisoned her. They swear it on their honor."
Ser Arthur Dayne stepped forward, his voice steady. "We served Prince Rhaegar to the end. The princess bore his heir in that tower. We fought to protect the blood of the dragon, not to hold her captive."
The rebel lords murmured among themselves, shock rippling through their ranks. Tywin Lannister's lips curled in calculation. "If this is true, the Iron Throne passes to the child. But Aerys is dead, Rhaegar slain, Aegon and Rhaenys murdered in the sack. The boy would be king... under whose regency?"
Jon Arryn raised a hand for silence. "We cannot decide the fate of the Seven Kingdoms at the gates like beggars. Come, Ned. We shall form a council at once—the Great Council of the Realm, as in days of old. You, the Kingsguard, our lords here, and representatives from the Faith and maesters. We discuss the future with this newborn as king."
They entered the Red Keep under heavy guard, the babe's cries echoing faintly in the halls once ruled by the Mad King. In the throne room, beneath the looming Iron Throne—a jagged seat of twisted swords—the council convened. Jon Arryn presided at the head of a long oaken table, with Ned to his right, the babe swaddled in a cradle nearby, guarded by Ser Oswell. The Kingsguard stood vigil, their white cloaks a stark reminder of old loyalties. Lord Howland Reed sat quietly, observing; the Northern lords clustered together, their fur-trimmed cloaks a contrast to the silks of the South. Hoster Tully drummed his fingers thoughtfully, while Tywin Lannister lounged with predatory grace.
Jon Arryn opened the proceedings. "The rebellion began with a lie—or so it seems. Lady Lyanna was not abducted; she fled with Prince Rhaegar of her own will. Their union produced this child, Jaehaerys Targaryen, third of his name. Robert is dead, his claim extinguished. What say you all to crowning the babe king?"
Ned spoke first, his voice firm. "The boy is the rightful heir. My sister's dying words confirmed it. But he is an infant; the realm needs stability. A regency council—myself, Lord Arryn, perhaps Lord Tywin—to guide him until he comes of age."
Tywin's eyes gleamed. "A wise proposal, but with conditions. The Lannisters spilled blood in the sack; amends must be made. Marry the boy to my granddaughter when she's of age, binding houses."
Hoster Tully frowned. "And what of the Riverlands' losses? We need assurances against further Targaryen madness. The boy carries dragon blood—will he burn like his grandfather?"
Ser Gerold Hightower interjected, his tone commanding. "The Kingsguard serves the king, whoever he may be. But this child is no Aerys. Prince Rhaegar dreamed of a better realm; let us honor that."
Lord Willam Dustin grunted. "The North bled for this lie. If we crown him, the Wall gets more men, and the old ways respected. No more southern intrigues dragging us into wars."
Debate raged for hours: alliances proposed, grievances aired, the future mapped in ink and oaths. Theo Wull advocated for stronger borders against wildlings; Ser Mark Ryswell suggested tourneys to unite the lords. Howland Reed, speaking rarely, warned of shadows in the game—whispers of Varys the Spider's webs, or Pycelle's poisons. By dusk, a fragile consensus emerged: Jaehaerys III would be proclaimed king, with a regency of Ned, Jon Arryn, and Tywin Lannister. The Kingsguard would swear anew, and ravens dispatched to all corners, declaring the truth and calling for peace.
A few days later, on the windswept isle of Dragonstone, Queen Rhaella Targaryen labored in the ancient stone halls of her ancestral seat. Exiled with her young son Viserys after the fall of King's Landing, she had endured storms and solitude, her belly swelling with what she prayed would be a final hope for House Targaryen. The birth was swift but arduous, attended by maesters and loyal servants who had fled with her. As the cries filled the chamber, a girl emerged—silver-haired and violet-eyed, a true dragon. Rhaella named her Daenerys, Stormborn, for the gales that raged outside.
Exhausted but triumphant, Rhaella cradled her daughter as a maester entered, bearing a sealed raven's scroll. "From King's Landing, Your Grace. Urgent."
She broke the seal, her hands trembling. The letter, penned in Jon Arryn's precise hand and stamped with the temporary seal of the regency, read:
*Your Grace, Queen Rhaella,*
*The realm has been torn asunder by falsehoods, but truth now emerges from the ashes. The rebellion was built upon a lie: Lady Lyanna Stark was not kidnapped by Prince Rhaegar but went with him willingly, in love and secret marriage. From their union comes a son, your grandson, whom we have proclaimed King Jaehaerys III. He is safe in King's Landing, under the protection of a regency council led by Lords Stark, Arryn, and Lannister.*
*Robert Baratheon is dead, his wounds claiming him. The war ends not in conquest, but reconciliation. We beseech you and Prince Viserys to return to King's Landing at once. Your place is here, as Queen Mother and advisor to the young king. Dragonstone is yours, but the Iron Throne awaits its blood. Safe passage is guaranteed under banners of truce.*
*In hope of a united realm,*
*Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and Regent*
Rhaella's eyes filled with tears—of relief, suspicion, and fragile hope. "Viserys," she called softly to her son, playing nearby. "Pack your things, my sweet. We go home."